


Exposition

by EnglishLanguage



Category: Tron (Movies), Tron - All Media Types
Genre: Child Abuse, Darker AU, Everything is inaccurate I'm sorry, Gen, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, It Gets Worse Before It Gets Better, Mackey sucks, References to Drugs, Short Chapters, Suicidal Thoughts, This story just sets up for the worse, Tron makes a cameo through Alan, just a little bit
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-16
Updated: 2019-03-17
Packaged: 2019-11-19 08:00:04
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 9
Words: 7,698
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18133049
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/EnglishLanguage/pseuds/EnglishLanguage
Summary: Sort of a prequel for a Tron AU in a series of conversations.Before anything goes right, everything has to go wrong.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> My first work is a set-up for an AU. I dunno whether or not that bodes well for the rest of my writing in this fandom... :| :)

“I’ve got a hot date.”

“Mmnh. What’s her name? Where’s she from?”

“She’s half-something-South-American. Name is Jordana Canas. Said I can call her Jordan, though.”

“Career?”

“Works at a bar.”

“Well, which one?”

“Ah… there’s one down at…. Well, I guess it’s sort of by...”

“The dangerous part of town that I keep telling you to avoid. Right. Is she from around there?”

“I… dunno.” Kevin buffs the back of his neck with one hand, acquiescing chagrin with a tilted nod.

“That’s better than last time, Flynn; you know her full name and everything-”

“I don’t need to hear this, _Alan_.” Bradley reacts, as he always does, with his passive-aggressive act, even gives up on looming forward into Kevin’s face in favor of sitting clear back in his chair, raising his eyebrows in that inverted pout of his. It’s an invitation for Kevin to advance with his- as Alan has dubbed it- ‘belligerence.’ It’s _also_ a minefield: when Alan Bradley lets Kevin get away with anything, it’s because the programmer wants to see Kevin mess up. Usually to make a point. “It’s not a drunk thing… don’t look at me like that, it’s _not_. She’s actually cool, man, I think this…” He gestures a circle in midair, and the circle includes him and _Jordan_ and totally not Alan. “This relationship? It’s gonna go places.”

“This relationship that you started in a decrepit drug den in the worst part of the city. Of course. All I’m saying is, I’m not going to be the one to drag your dead body out of that pit when someone decides to bash in your head.” Alan sucks in a breath for what’s going to be either a massive sigh or a continued lecture-

“Pffft.” Kevin cuts him short; ends up spitting all over the place. “No duh, I don’t want you to drag me outta anywhere. It’s… It’ll all work out great. You’ll see.”

“How’s her economic status?”

“That matters because…?”

“Answer me, Kevin.”

He only obliges because Alan’s got the bridge of his nose perched between two fingers, seconds away from an aneurysm. It won’t do ENCOM any good if one of the company’s best programmers comes down with a rabid headache.

“Her ‘economic status’ is not awesome. Girl deserves some privacy, though, so that’s all you get.”

“Kevin, you’re blatantly wealthy. You don’t see a problem with that?”

“Like what?”

“On one hand, she could be using you for your money.” Kevin spews out the stuttered beginnings of a protest to that, and Alan flicks a nonverbal command to _shut up_ with one hand. Without any consent from his functional brain, Kevin’s words strangle themselves to death in his throat- and what part of him went ahead and decided that Alan is scary enough to obey, anyway? “On the other hand, maybe not. She could be a perfectly nice young lady, but that doesn’t change the fact that she’s living in poverty. She works at _that_ bar, doing… who knows what. Actually, _you_ do know what, even if I don’t, but my point stands: if she’s living and working in that part of town, she’s going to have any number of life issues that you won’t know how to recognize, let alone deal with!”

“So you’re not going to let me do this?”

“Hn?” Great. Now Alan’s broken, blinking in shock like a skipping record. “No, not at all. You’re a matur… you’re an adult, Kevin. Make your own decisions, just…”

“What?”

“Look out for yourself. I’m trying to protect you.”

The statement is uncannily familiar. His brain stumbles through a double-take, trying to see irradiant blue eyes and broad shoulders encased in armored black where there are only hazel-grey eyes glaring and the rumpled tie-and-collar of a suit. “It’s insane, Alan, you act exactly like…”

“...Like who?”

“Never mind.”


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry, Jordan... you honestly deserved better than this.

“Alan.”

“...Yes? Kevin?”

“Alan. Alan, I…”

It’s just over the telephone. He’s not even looking at Bradley, so he might as well not be talking to anyone right now. Maybe he’s talking to the wall. Maybe to the thin air. There’s no reason to be shy.

“Something happened, man.”

“What?”

“I broke up with Jordan.”

“Not to be offensive, Kevin, but you’ve never _called_ me about something like this.”

“Because something like this has never _happened_ to me, Bradley. She- she was on drugs, okay?”

Alan pauses for a second, clicking his tongue until a faint tsking noise feeds through the phone. “I understand why that’s concerning, Kevin, but- frankly- are you really one to judge?”

The drugs and Jordan and the concern and now Alan… he’s going to punch the wall, right here and right now, and then he’s going to drive over to Alan’s house and he’s going to punch Alan, too. “Listen here, man. She wasn’t doing some stupid college-kid stuff, you got that? She was… she was in the business or something, doing hard drugs and messing around with some people that I wouldn’t touch with a broom if I had to _sweep them off my porch._ Jordan! She was all tangled up in their back-alley who-knows-what and didn’t ever say a _thing_ about it to me until I found those morons… _in my house!_ ”

“Kevin…”

“Chh. You let me finish, or so help me… I kicked her out, okay? You were right about her all along; isn’t that _great_.”

“I didn’t want to be right.”

“That’s funny, Bradley. But it’s all _fine.”_ Nothing is fine, his whole dang body is twitching and if he doesn’t go scream in a pillow right now, he’ll probably go outside and gut the first person he sees with a cafeteria spork. “I trusted her, alright? I really did. Like an idiot. Turns out, I don’t want to get mixed up with her crowd. I don’t want ENCOM to get mixed up with her crowd. And I don’t _want to be murdered by a big time drug lord in my sleep!_ You proud of me yet?”

“Sure, Kevin.”

“You don’t sound proud.” The rage limps to a slow halt with the last of his energy. He slides down the wall without so much as a pretense of dignity and has to stop talking before he bursts into tears.

“It’s not that _at all_ , Kevin. That’s…” Alan backs off from his end of the call for a second- Kevin hears muffled swearing, probably smothered in the crook of Alan’s elbow or something. It’s not that impressive of a cuss word, either, so why Alan bothers to try and hide it is beyond Kevin’s understanding. “That’s good. You did really good, okay? It’s just that these things aren’t… black and white. I can’t help but think that maybe Jordan needed help; maybe she was in a bad place and… it’s just not going to end well for her.”

“That’s the nicest thing you’ve ever said about a girlfriend of mine. Was she growing on you or something?”

“Ke…”

“It’s fine. It’s all good, she was growing on me, too. But I can’t help but think… I was going to make it permanent, Alan. Not right now, but I could totally see it happening in the future.” The last few words crack into a whisper. “I could’ve had a kid with her. Can you imagine how bad that would be? She was messed up, on drugs, and I would’ve gone and had a kid with her.”

  



	3. Chapter 3

“Is this Kevin Flynn?”

“Yes, this is.”

“Good evening, Mr. Flynn. We’re calling to inform you of the death of a Jordana Luiza Canas…”

“The _death?"_

“Unfortunately, sir…”

“From what? What happened?”

“It was an accidental death caused during a raid on her home by city police. The details of the incident are not at my liberty to disclose to you at this time.”

“That’s… horrible. Why am I the one being informed?”

“Were you not aware that, in her will, Ms. Canas had you listed as the guardian for her child?”

“No, I wasn- wait. What child?”

“Her son, Samuel Matheus Canas. She specified that you are his biological father. Is that correct?”

“I… I guess? Sorry- yes, I am his father. _Samuel's_ father."

“Perfect.”

 

* * *

  

“Alan, you better check your answering machine, because I may or may not have a son and I need you with me either way.”

 

* * *

 

“Kevin. How’re you holding up?”

“The results are in from the lab. Paternity test and all that…”

“And?”

“Do you wanna be the godfather or just the weird uncle?”

 

* * *

 

“It’s going to be… _difficult_ … for you to take this child into your care, Mr. Flynn.”

“Legally or for some other reason?”

“Legally, you were explicitly listed as the boy’s guardian, have proven that you are capable of acting as such, and have shown an extraordinary willingness to become a parental figure in his life. In short, you have a guaranteed claim to the boy. In terms of other reasons, however, there are… issues.”

“It’s been a really long week, ma’am. With all due respect, I would appreciate if you’d just tell me. Directly.”

“It’s very clear to us that Samuel has been mistreated. _Abused._ We’re not certain as to the extent of it, but these are his medical files, and they should tell you what you need to know for now.”

“I understand.”

“Do you? Because taking care of this child will be a massive commitment on your part, Mr. Flynn. Physically and psychologically, Samuel Canas is… very broken up. The death of his maternal guardian and his displacement from his childhood home have only made things worse. So understand this, Mr. Flynn- whatever choices you make regarding Samuel will likely shape the rest of his life. If you’re willing to take responsibility for him, you will also be taking responsibility for his problems and for finding the solutions to those problems.”

“He’s my kid. I’m ready and willing to do anything.”

 

* * *

 

Mathu doesn’t know how to be _Samuel Flynn:_ the name sits too loose and heavy on his shoulders like a big jacket. He tries to reach for an understanding of it, of everything that’s happening, but it’s like he can’t reach past the baggy elbows of it; instead, he trips over the hem so the coat slides up and falls over his head. There’s no Samuel, no Mathu, just a swamp of jacket on the floor.

Except Samuel (no jacket, just red and blue pajamas) isn’t on the floor anymore. He’d started out there because the bed in the room is too nice and neat to be touched by _alguém t_ _ão sujo_ \- he shed an entire layer of black dirt in the shower, but that probably wasn’t enough to make much difference. The floor was cold and hard, though, and his whole body still aches from a couple of days ago, so he’d gradually moved to the end of the bed. He hopes no one will care. He hopes he’s _supposed_ to be on the bed.

The quiet and clean air and the bright lights scare him, and the size of the room scares him more. He wouldn’t have to open any doors, go down any hallways, or even move, and he could get lost in this house all the same.

So he sits on the bed, leaves the lamp on so Kevin Flynn knows he isn’t asleep, and he waits. He doesn’t close his eyes, not once. The man never comes inside.

The morning scrapes its way into the sky and through a window, cloudy grey and hard with white light. Inside, the lamp shines yellow-bright, the kind of color that feels like nails in his head when he hasn’t slept enough- it hurts his eyes and he just feels sicker.

(And the man _never ever_ came inside…) What, then, is _Samuel Matheus Canas_  doing here?

What does Kevin Flynn want from him?

 

* * *

  

"Hey, kiddo... did you sleep?" 

He receives no answer.

"I'm going to take that as a 'no.' Alright, Mathu..."

" _Eu não quero ser Mathu;_ I don't... I don't want Mathu.  _Não mais."_

"You don't... want to be called Mathu?" The kid glares back up at him with a face unlike any kid Kevin's ever seen. He's got dark exhaustion for eyeshadow; a different language- vicious in that it belonged to _Jordan-_  and chapped, bloody skin coat his lips. He's gaunt, too, cheeks crooked and shallow like some too-young, too-old, worn-out caricature of a model. "How about Samuel? It's your first name." 

It fits the ramshackle, runaway look on the kid. It doesn't fit the mass of feathery, brunet curls that sit in a puff on his head like a soft, brown halo. It doesn't fit his fragile size or the nervous vulnerability of his skinny, shaking hands. "Hey, what about Sam, huh? You look kinda like a Sam."

The kid jerks a nod at him. "Sam."

 


	4. Chapter 4

The man has a face like a bleached wall: papery, faded-pale, and done over with a liberal coating of crinkled matte paint. He’s also completely unfamiliar and unmistakably making eye contact with Kevin, which is… a perfect combination. It means the man wants to talk. The social disaster hasn’t even happened yet, and Kevin’s already anticipating a slow and painful death in his future- courtesy of Alan as soon as the dude learns that Kevin messed up another CEO thing.

“Hey, man; how’s it going?” Wall-Face sucks a lemon for a second in reaction, shudders like a dog and completely resets his facial expression. No surprise- the hoser totally looks the type to have never spoken casually in his life. Then he has the nerve to act like Kevin didn’t even try to make a greeting in the first place, sticks out his hand to shake and everything…

“Excuse me, Mr. Flynn, I’m Richard Mackey. I don’t assume you know me that well-”

“Hey, you’ve got a firm grip on you! Nice.” Wall-Face Mackey purses his lips and tries not to look too completely annoyed. To his credit, the man isn't completely ineffective at hiding his emotions, but he could definitely take lessons from a _true_ master of stoicism- specifically, Kevin thinks he’d get along just fine with Alan. "So- Mackey. Nah, I’ve definitely seen you around.” This is a lie.

_Better take a wild guess…_

“You’re on the board?”

“That I am, Mr. Flynn.”

 _Success._ He takes back everything bad he’s ever said about himself and half of everything Alan’s ever said because Kevin Flynn is _awesome._ "Call me Kevin.”

 _"Kevin_. It’s only that we don’t often see you at board meetings- you certainly have a unique method of running this business. I thought it prudent to reintroduce myself, just to be sure.”

Oh, he thought it _prudent._

“What I wanted to talk to you about, Kevin, is not really… work-related. If you don’t mind.”

“Not at all.” He gets the sense Mackey doesn’t dabble in a lot of non-work-related stuff. Chances are this is going to be the only semi-interesting thing Wall-Face ever says to anyone, and Kevin’s not about to miss out on that.

“Thank you. This is going to sound incredibly intrusive, but I couldn’t help but hear something about your predicament at home. Through the grapevine, as it goes... Some trouble with your son?”

That’d burst anyone’s bubble, but Kevin’s good mood doesn’t just _burst-_ it shreds itself to pieces against his ribcage and settles somewhere in his intestines so the corpse can begin putrefaction in peace. “My son?” 'Predicament' doesn’t even begin to explain what’s going on with Sam.

“I have no doubt that you're more than capable as a parent, and I’d hate to interfere in your affairs, but I also heard you were having difficulty finding a suitable child psychologist. I happen to have some… excellent recommendations.”

Kevin hadn't realized he had a  _couple_ of different moods bouncing around his chest until the anger fades away as quickly as the contentment did, but with half the sudden violence. “Really?”

“Yes. I was wondering if you’d like to discuss it at all, or if you’d like me to refer you to any of them.”

“I’d… I’d like to discuss that. Absolutely. I’m off for lunch at 12:30.”

“That’s manageable. Good day, Mr. Flynn, I’ll see you then.”

“Back at you, Mr. Mackey.”

  



	5. Chapter 5

“Sweetie, you act like a child in place of a grown man sometimes; come here…” He dodges his mother for another second; only gives in to a wrinkled kiss on his cheek after craning his neck to see that Rich actually walked through the door and out of view.

“I know, mom.”

“Hm. Well, that Mackey boy is a _dear,_ Kev, and I’m sure his mother is allowed to show him affection without maiming his pride. You ought to bring him to visit more often.”

“Can’t. Alan would be jealous.”

“You know he wouldn’t.” She leans across him to lock the front door before catching him by his elbow. “Sit down for a bit, won’t you? Just until your father gets home- I told him to be back from the library by eight, but you know that man. Doesn’t leave the place until…”

“They close up and haul him right out the front door.” He finishes the sentence at the same time as her, coughing up an obligatory chuckle at the end. As inside jokes go, it’s barely even a joke. His mom isn’t the funniest lady on the Earth, but dang- she is one of the nicest. “So how are you two doing? I haven’t visited in forever.”

“We know you’re busy at ENCOM, Kevin. Hopefully you're letting Alan take care of you?”

“What, did you sic him on me or somethin’?”

“He’s a sensible man.” Her pressed-lips expression of disapproval falls apart the instant he looks into her eyes, which are beautiful as ever, crinkled with laughter along the lines of deep crow’s feet. “You, on the other hand, are as responsible as your father when it comes to going home at an acceptable time.”

“I’ll have you know… everyone says I’ve gotten much better at keeping a healthy schedule for work.”

“You have, haven’t you?” His mom averts her gaze to the floral pattern on the couch, furrowing her brows like she’s hunting for Waldo himself in the leaves and vines.

 _Awesome-_ he’s thinking about _Waldo_ again; give it another week and he’ll be seeing the little creep everywhere he looks. Sam loves those Waldo books to the point of obsession, and heavens know he’s got skill for locating sneaky candy-cane men. Unlike his son, Kevin has stared at one of those books for _hours_ \- no exaggeration; he kept track- without finding anything.

She flicks her gaze back to him- "You really have become so incredibly mature, Kevin.”

“Was I not before?”

“No,” she snickers. “And even now, I have my doubts. But things have changed, there’s no denying that. It’s like… it’s like watching my little boy grow up all over again.”

“After you’d given up all hope of me growing up at all, right?”

“Right!” Her smile distorts almost as soon as it quirks into existence; shivers to pieces until she bites down on one lip to still the tremors, blinking away _tears..._ “How is he? How’s… Sam?”

“Sam.” Right now, Sam is doing great. Amazing. He’s looking for _Waldo_ and running around like a ballistic missile and every so often exploding with laughter that sounds like shrieking: laughter like Sam never laughed in his life before Kevin and has to make up for it as soon as possible. And then the kid falls apart in wailing night terrors at the most unholy hours of the morning, and Kevin can’t even _touch_ him when the episodes happen, because Sam’ll flinch back hard enough to give himself a concussion on the wall. One step forward, two steps back sort of thing... He nods decisively. “Sam is coping.”

“That’s good to hear.”

He knows that his mom and dad aren’t really coping at all, though- his dad even less so than his mom. Both Ian and Carol Flynn are good, gentle people, but at least his mom has fortitude. Ian paralyzes himself with furious horror and refuses to function for an unspecified number of hours at the slightest mention of abuse. Both of them love his Sam- his flop-haired, bright-eyed, intelligent kid- but they’re totally unequipped to deal with or understand what Sam has been through.

(What Jordan put him through… what _Kevin_ put him through when he accidentally created a _child_ with his girlfriend and then kicked her out the front door without any semblance of support.)

“That’s  _really_ good to hear, Kevin. He’s a lovely little boy.”

“Yep. He’s adorable as all-”

“No cussing, Kev, for the last time…”

  



	6. Chapter 6

“How’s it hanging?”

“It’s... _hanging_ just fine, Flynn.” Alan stabs out another line of code on his keyboard, methodical but sleep-deprived.

“C’mon, man, you aren’t trying to go without coffee again, are you?” Alan’s desk is cluttered- _neat-cluttered_ , but cluttered nonetheless- with ordered piles of paper sorted by size, color, importance; tall stacks leaning against shorter stacks for dear life. In all the mess, his friend always leaves a space empty and available for a cup of coffee, usually something small but packed full of caffeine.

“It’s addictive.”

It's addictive... what it _is_  is Kevin’s last line of defense against the righteous irritation of Dr. Alan Bradley. Coffee saves Alan’s life, and when Kevin sees a cup of it nestled between documents on Alan’s desk- a tall, cylindrical white flag for peace- he knows his own life has also been spared for one more day.

“Yeah, but I was counting on it to keep you from getting all snappy at me today.”

“Kevin, I will end you.” This is how he knows Alan is serious: the words aren’t said with any detectable anger or frustration. Alan isn’t growling or blustering or snarking at him; he doesn’t even spare Kevin a glance. The statement is completely cool and passive, phrased like Alan’s suggesting the next, logical course of action for ENCOM to take in programming. It means that Alan’s put the impressive whole of his extensive mental ability into deliberating on the idea of killing Kevin… and the impressive whole of his extensive mental ability has agreed that homicide is, in fact, a sensible option that can and will be carried out with all of Alan’s responsible timeliness.

“Sure, man, but can I ask you something first?” Show no fear. “It’s actually serious, so just listen.”

Alan spins his chair around and tips back into it.

“Awesome. I was filling out my will again, because of Sam…”

“You want to know if I’ll consent to be Sam’s guardian if anything happens to you.”

It feels like whiplash. “Uh… yeah. That’s it. You’re quick.” He spends too much time on the Grid now, trying to build himself an entire world- by his perception, he probably spends more time on the Grid than he does literally anywhere else. Sometimes he forgets that Alan, albeit limited by human errors and all that jazz, is a genius similar to the program that Kevin knows so well. It all checks out, seeing that Alan created Tron in the first place.

“You keep me on the team for a reason, Flynn.”

“Guess so. Will you do it?”

Alan bumps his glasses further up on his nose, sliding a finger underneath the rims to wipe at the corners of his eyes. He’s stalling. “Kevin, hear me out..."

“That’s a no.”

“It’s a tentative no, but I’ve got a reason for it. Listen. You know my family- Lora and Jethro- moved out of state. And I told you why-”

“Because when ENCOM started getting important, you didn’t want Jet to get mixed up in it. And Lora has her own career projects that you don’t want to interfere with, either.”

“Exactly. I live here alone, Kevin, and I have to work to support my family. If you die, and Sam gets left with me, he’s stranded alone- for most of each week- in a tiny apartment. And I say alone because your son is working through a lot of trauma, and I can’t think of a single caretaker, some… some random adult… that I would trust to both protect him and deal with his unusual… needs.”

“No, I get that.”

“So imagine you die, and Sam gets left with Jet and Lora. He’s met Lora, sure, but only briefly- and he’s never met Jet. Lora would be more than willing to learn how to take care of Sam, take psychology classes, anything. But I don’t think it would be healthy for Sam to be moved out of his home, transferred across a few states, and deserted with a couple of near-strangers. If there’s anyone you trust that already lives here and can take care of Sam, I would advise you to choose them instead.”

“What if there’s no one?”

“Then I’ll accept. Are you sure there’s no one?”

 _There’s Rich Mackey._ A man who, even before meeting Kevin’s kid, had Sam’s best interests in mind… Kevin started cooperating with Rich to find Sam a suitable therapist. When that backfired, they worked together to get Kevin into a psychology class online so that he could learn how to take care of his son himself. “You know Richard Mackey?”

“Vaguely. He’s on the board. But you know him quite well, don't you?”

“I do. I think… I think I’ll ask him.”

“You do that, Kevin.” Gosh, if all it takes to disarm Alan without coffee is a solemn topic of conversation, Kevin’s totally going to learn from that and come to work tomorrow  _prepared_. “I’m honored that you asked me, though.”

“Anytime, man.”

 


	7. Chapter 7

“Infantile amnesia. Have you read about that one?”

“Infant-i-le. Uh… I don’t think so, dad.” Sam’s making tick marks in pencil at the bottom of his flashcards instead of studying them. Kid’s a genius, but that isn’t going to do him much good if he doesn’t catch up in his schooling.

“I knew I’d stump you eventually, man. Well, before you’re three or four years old, buddy, some really important parts of your brain are still developing.”

“I know that.”

“Smartypants.” Sam reaches for a celery stick- ants on a log, covered in peanut butter and a line of raisins- and Kevin gives a mental cheer. Sam’s finally _eating_ , and it’s awesome. “But what you don’t know, Sam, is that the parts of your noggin that form memories- the hippocampus, et cetera- just aren’t able to do much while you’re still puny. Because of that, people don’t have memories from when they’re babies. _That_ is infantile amnesia.”

“So I only have… three or four years of memories in me, and I’m also missing three or four?”

“Something like that, kiddo. Off topic- how do you like Rich? Rich Mackey? You think he’s a good guy?” He doesn’t want to explain to his kid _why_ he needs to know about Mackey. The last thing Sam needs to worry about right now is the possibility of his dad dying on him, which Kevin does not plan to do until a very, very distant future.

Sam tosses him the side eye that means he’s picking up on more than Kevin’s saying, regardless. Maybe he notices the hint of niggling worry and desperation that itches at Kevin’s heart whenever he thinks about leaving Sam. Maybe he’s worried Kevin’s going to leave him with Mackey during the day instead of Sam’s grandparents… which Sam would hate, but it wouldn’t be the worst idea. Carol and Ian are old and high-strung, and Kevin _knows_ they’re approaching intolerable new heights of stress in having to try and care for Sam everyday. He’s going to have to take the kid out of their hands soon enough, maybe take him along to work.

“He’s fine, dad.”

“Good to know.”

“I wonder what I don’t remember…”

“What’s that, kiddo?”

“Infantile amnesia. I wonder what happened before my brain started working. Like… what I don’t remember?”

 _You remember enough as it is, Sam._ He doesn’t say it out loud, but the words sit on the tip of his tongue for a good half-hour before he manages to swallow them back down.

 

* * *

 

“Rich? You busy?” He clicks his knuckles against the frame of the door and gives Mackey time to exit out of his tabs and turn around. Richard is an intensely private person, and not in the way that Alan gets all riled up when people poke around in his business, but not enough to do anything about it. Richard takes _precautions._ It’s almost funny...

“Come in, Kevin.”

“Thanks, man.” He settles himself on the edge of Richard’s desk because there’s empty  _room_ on it- a lot of room, actually, Mackey has a reputation as a neat freak. “Okay, Richard, I wanted to start out by saying that you’ve done a lot for me these past few years and I really appreciate that.”

“It’s nice to be appreciated.” Another thing- Richard never smiles. Sometimes, though, his scowl unwinds a few inches and Kevin swears the man would be wearing a grin if he weren’t so uptight.

“So if you don’t want to be a part of this, I understand and… I wouldn’t blame you. But I was changing my will for Sam, and I was hoping you would be his guardian in the case that anything ever happens to me.”

“Would I have control over his finances, or is there another person I should work with for that?”

“No, I can give you control of that.”

“I’d be very pleased to be listed as Samuel’s guardian.” There- that _has_ to be a Mackey smile; if it isn’t, then nothing is.

“Really? Aw, rad. That’s… amazing, Richard, thank you. I’ll call you tonight and we can talk it over, okay?”

 

* * *

 

“Oh, no- don’t get me wrong, I absolutely hate him. He’s completely useless as a CEO, and don’t-”

“Completely useless?”

“Yes, that’s right, _useless_ \- don’t make me talk about what he’s like as a human being.”

“Mmh.”

“He’s _abnormal._ ”

“Then why are you smarming up to him?”

“He’s rich and he’s stupid, so when he takes a fall… one way or another… all that money’s going to go somewhere. The power’s going to go somewhere, too. I’m just in the right place to take advantage of that.”

“That’s great to hear, Mack, but you’ve got to admit there’s a lot that’s wrong with your plan. First off, it’s doubtful that anything’s going to happen to Flynn- he’s been successful so far, hasn’t he?”

“He’s an idiot. Give it time, and when it happens, you’ll wish with all your rotten heart that you had the same opportunities I did. Look, I have to go, alright? Flynn’s calling me.”

“Yeah, you always have someone you have to snuggle up to. Have a good evening.”

“Don’t you talk to me like that...”

 

* * *

 

“Richard Mackey.”

“Who is this?”

“This is Alan Bradley.” He has Lora hanging on one arm, leaning in to hear the conversation through the phone. On the other arm, he’s got the ghost of Kevin Flynn with the whole of its hefty legacy, only shadows of dreams and charisma straining to slip from his grasp. The _physical_ Flynn is long-gone, and all of his _real_ legacy is held captive in the hands of one Richard Mackey: the man who’s trying to prove in court that Kevin committed _suicide._ The man who wants Kevin Flynn declared legally dead...

 _Suicide, of all things?_ Nothing was looking good for Kevin at the end of it all; Alan’s friend had been jittering with some sort of mania for months on end, bouncing from responsibility to responsibility and rambling about _miracles_ and never getting anything done properly. Then, the man had the nerve to leave ENCOM- to leave Alan and Sam and everyone else- floundering in the graveyard of Kevin’s worthlessly half-finished projects. Alan wouldn't be shocked if sheer insanity or something similar caused Kevin to run- whether because he was spooked or inspired, no one can be sure. But knowing Kevin as he does, Alan can say with absolute certainty that the man did not kill himself. Kevin was a man who, at his core, thrived off of life and opportunity.

Death would’ve held no appeal for him.

“Alan Bradley.” Mackey swishes the name around his mouth for a second and spits it out defiled- it doesn’t sound anything like Alan’s name anymore, and he never wants to hear Mackey say it again. “You’re calling about Flynn, I suppose?”

“ _Tell me_.”

“Tell you what?”

“Mackey, I want you to swear to me on whatever it is you hold dear in life- do you honestly believe that Kevin Flynn committed suicide?”

“Dr. Bradley, I understand that this is a horrific situation, and I am deeply sorry for what you and your family are going through.”

“Not only did you refuse to answer the question, you also had to force every word of that sentence through your lying teeth, Mackey. Every. Single. _Word.”_ This _isn’t_ happening. This degree of sheer madness exists only in _fiction._ In a world of justice, logic, and pure human empathy, disasters like this should be impossible. Hatred crackles in Alan’s stomach until his muscles shudder with the tension of it; until his fingertips ache like they’re wedged in a live socket and not struggling to keep hold of a phone. The sense of utter detachment about the whole affair is the _only thing_ preventing Alan from dashing the receiver to bits on the ground. “You _coward._ ”

“Doctor, I was under the impression that you were close to Kevin Flynn.”

At that, Lora gasps sharply into Alan’s ear. Mackey has some  _nerve,_ the snide little...

“Yes. I am very close to Kevin Flynn.” Who is not, to any extent, _dead._

“Then you’d have noticed, of course, his recent erratic behavior. This, alongside multiple other pieces of evidence, are quite indicative that the man killed himself. As the CEO of such a large company and as the father of a child with...issues, I believe that he was likely under a great amount of stress. It’s unfortunate that he reacted so drastically, but not entirely unexpected.”

“ _Issues_ , you say. And that reminds me, Mackey… where is Sam?”

“Pardon?”

“I know you have custody of him. Where is Sam Flynn?” Beside him, Lora is digging nails into his shoulder, straining to hold in either a panic attack or an obscene diatribe that’ll get them both in trouble with ENCOM.

“It’s not your concern, Bradley, but seeing as you hold yourself to be quite responsible for the child, I’ll have you know that he’s staying with me for now.”

“For now? What do you-”

“I’m sending him to a boarding school, away from the city where his father _abandoned_ him. It’s an excellent institution and it will do him a world of good.”

Heaven help him, but Alan doesn’t believe that for a second. “I want to talk to him.”

“He’s distressed right now. I can’t allow that. He’ll keep in contact, alright? The school I’m sending him to is a dedicated proponent of the art of letter writing.”

“What school? _Mackey! What school…”_ He _screams_ curses at the phone, almost lets the thing drop before Lora catches him by the wrist. “He hung up. He _hung up._ ”

“What are we going to do about this, Alan?”

“I don’t know. For… for once in my life, I’m out of ideas, Lora…” She pries the receiver from his fingers, and he’s left staring numbly at the imprints that the phone left on his hand where he gripped it too firmly. “I was the one who didn’t want to take Sam in- is this my fault?”

“No.” Lora trembles from head to toe, with the exception being her hands- she steadies them on the edge of the counter. “But right here, right now, what are we going to do about it?”

“I want to go after Kevin. If I find him… _when_ I find him, everything is going to be set right, or else I’ll murder him myself. Is that what I should do, Lora? Because nothing makes sense anymore...”

“That... That sounds best. Unless you want to take this up with Mackey in court to get custody of Sam.”

“We’re not that rich, Lora. What's more, Mackey's guardianship is legal, and we're not above the law. Without Kevin, there's nothing we can do." His hand slashes through the air, crashing through their hopes, their desperation... There's nothing left of it.  _Nothing._ "Without Kevin, Mackey  _wins._ "

“Then we'll go find Kevin."

 


	8. Chapter 8

“Where is he?”

“The Flynn kid?” The other man tosses a shrug over one shoulder. “I told you, he’s gone. Scarpered.”

“Yes, you told me, but I had _assumed_ that you’d have done something about the situation by now.” This whole half-done plan of his was never foolproof… he’d thought it senseless to try and create any sort of foolproof plan to begin with, because for every situation Richard accounted for, there’d be an infinite number of other, unexpected possibilities ready to attack him from his blindside. But he did not expect for Samuel Flynn- the _child_ \- to be the chaotic factor throwing a wrench in his goals. “Bradley is asking about the boy. Don’t you think it’ll be _difficult_ to convince Bradley that Samuel is attending boarding school if Samuel isn’t actually attending boarding school?”

The other- _Rikke-_ only narrows his eyes in an astonishing display of nonchalance. “Bribe them. I’d imagine you’re good at that.”

“I imagined you were good at your job, too, Rikke. ENCOM is a circus of a corporation; no one but Kevin Flynn could possibly keep control of that. I need Flynn’s ideas as a starting point to get my hands on any sort of influence at ENCOM, and I need his son to get those ideas in the first place.” He runs through a list of breathing exercises in his head- in truth, under this degree of pressure, he doesn’t know of a single technique that’ll take even the barest edge off of his _vexation._ “I told you to get the information out of Samuel and to _keep him in line._ That meant you were allowed to intimidate him, not _cripple him_!”

“Kid’s not a cripple. He ran right out of your secure apartment, no problems.”

Rikke is a dangerous man to antagonize. The police force of the United States is also dangerous, though, and Richard will take his chances against a single man over an entire organization any day. “You hurt him. You left evidence in my apartment. Blood!”

“This is exactly why the first thing I do when I get in contact with one of you corrupt businessmen is _pray._  I’m an atheist, Mackey. Do you understand what I’m saying? You and your breed of people are irrational to the point of uselessness, and you _snivel._ ”

“Are you calling me corrupt?”

“I’m calling you squeamish. I threatened the kid’s godfather, like you told me. I told him Alan Bradley would get hurt if he ever tried to get help or interfered with your business. He agreed to that, but _nothing_ I said convinced the little brat to spill any of his daddy’s secrets. You hearing me, Mackey? I did what I had to.”

He barely manages to grit it through his teeth: “How are you not worried?”

“You’re both deaf and an idiot. He said he wouldn’t interfere. He’s scared for Bradley, and he’s scared for himself because he’s a little kid that just got beat to…”

“ _I need him in that school._ ”

“You need him on the streets, which is where he’s at right now. At school, he has the chance to get attention and cause problems. On the streets, he’s going to be scared and alone. Chances are he’ll get snatched up by someone who’ll keep an eye on him for us. Chances are he’ll die. It’s not a problem.”

Rikke, not Richard Mackey, is the professional criminal in this situation. Richard’s only job is to calm down (he smears the palm of his hand down his face, swiping cold sweat off his forehead and chin) and stay on Rikke’s good side.

“Do you need Bradley dead or no?”

“I want him alive. He’s valuable. I’m… I’m putting cameras on him, though, and if the Flynn boy tries to accuse me of anything in front of Bradley…” The child had better not. Richard isn’t a murderer and he’d like to maintain that as the status quo. “But how am I supposed to convince him that his best friend’s son hasn’t dropped off the face of the Earth?”

“Pay someone to write letters to Bradley in place of the Flynn kid. That’s your area of expertise and your problem to deal with. You got me?”

"No, this is  _your_ area of expertise and what I'm paying you to do. Now- kindly go try and fix this."


	9. Chapter 9

“You’re scrawny.”

Yeah, he’s _scrawny._

A real crap-ugly dog- all bulging eyes and crusty nose, and not a whole lot else… His head’s just a gibbous orb two times too big for the body; three times too big for the stick legs.

“He’s a street dog,” drawls ‘ _Hi, my name is Kurtis_.’ At this point, Sam isn’t sure if the crackhead is trying to lure him away from the thing in the cage or if he’s begging Sam to take the mangy creature off his hands. “And a moron. We picked him up a week or two ago; he hasn’t done anything right since. Won’t eat. Prob’ly has lice.”

Sam hooks two fingers in the chain link fence that separates him from the dog and looks it straight in the bug-eyes. “You’re a street dog _and_ a rescue, huh? Well, that makes two of us.” How a borderline microscopic dog survived on the streets long enough to be taken into a shelter, Sam has no idea. Boston terriers- which seems to be the species of the dog in question, or at least close enough- are small and awkward things, and don’t seem at all equipped for living rough, which is probably to blame for this one’s horrendous physical state. Through the raw patches on its shabby coat, Sam can see sores and craggy ribs and what might be a skein of splotchy scars on skin.

Heck, this dog is going to be an _investment._

Time and money, and a good veterinarian… “I’m taking him.” It’s the second thing he’s said to Kurtis since he walked into the shelter, after the peremptory “I’m looking for a dog.” Thing is, besides the fact that Kurtis comes across as painfully dull company, Sam has been living on the edge of an edge for a number of months now, and if he started to really talk, he’d likely have no control of it.

 _‘I’m looking for a dog… a suicide prevention dog, something I can look at and feel sorry enough for that I won’t abandon it on a very permanent basis-’_ no, that wouldn’t go over well with _Kurtis._

“Cool. You submitted an application?”

“Yeah, and I did the interview thing, too. Last week? Girl named Chelsea? Should be on record.” The interview wasn’t the biggest mess of lies he’s come up with in his lifetime, but it was the guiltiest he’s ever felt doing it. He has a house, he did the research; so what if he doesn’t want to admit his current job situation to a total stranger?

“Uh- I’ll go take care of that for you, then.”

The dog- _ugliest_ dog he’s ever seen, no contest, but they’ll have that fixed up soon enough- bumps up against Sam’s hand with his spongy nose. Kurtis is out of view and earshot, so Sam feels no shame in rocking back on the heels of his squat and getting himself emotionally _attached_ to the small animal. “You’re too friendly for your own good, y’know? But it’s alright, man- I was the same.” The terrier lolls his head to the side like there’s a dumbbell strapped to one cheek- he doesn’t seem strong enough to tilt it all the way back again, and his body sags into the lopsidedness of it all. In short, the conditions in this shelter are deplorable, and Sam empathizes. “Then my dad took me in, I guess, and that probably saved my life for a few years. So I’m taking you in.”

Full frickin’ circle.

“I can’t even… it smells like dead meat in here. I’m _definitely_ taking you in. We’ll be out soon, buddy; hang in there.”

He can’t fit too much of his hand through the fencing between them, so he settles for awkwardly tapping the tattered sides of the terrier’s snout with the tips of his fingers. “Not gonna lie, I can’t give you everything my dad gave me. Money doesn’t grow on trees, and it doesn’t seem to grow anywhere else, either. I've done a lot of dumb stuff to stay alive, and it pays, but it doesn't pay _well._ ” He huffs a breath through his nose and swears to himself that it’s either genuine laughter or a response to the stench, and not another symptom of his hysterical frustration with life. “But there’s one thing that’s going to different for you than it was for me… I’m never going to ditch you. Lucky dog.”

The Boston terrier wheezes in some parody of excitement. Kurtis trips on a ridge of raised cement and _trips_ on a cloud of something smokey-bitter as he staggers out of the backroom- all the better for the health of the animals, of course, and the lungs on Sam’s wreck of a dog.

“So… it looks like everything’s good, dude. All the papers are in order.”

“‘S he housebroken?”

Kurtis’ face crumples in flustered confusion, which Sam takes to mean that the guy wouldn’t know the answer if his life depended on it.

“Alright- does he have a name, then?”

“Ah, no.”

“Great. How’s… Jeffrey? Your name is Jeff.” _Gross._ “Gregory. Alan- no, hang on, that’s the last thing I need to deal with.”

 

* * *

 

 

“Screw it. I’m naming you Marvin, no take-backs.”

  



End file.
